Hexes and Woes
by Ave Adelaide
Summary: With all intents and purposes, Ginny and her roommate only expected getting revenge on Draco. In light of a new war, she finds her own unexpected rebellion: a desire for Hogwarts unity. Yes, my friends, this is a strangely poignant parody of cliches. DG
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Welcome and welcome back! The fic previously known as "My Life as a Timid Renegade" has been edited, tweaked, and gnawed at until it has been reinvented into this: "Hexes and Woes." My initial purpose to writing this was to steal nearly every Fire and Ice cliché I could find and smash it into one story. As you'll find, I ran away with my characters and it becomes a little less cliché in the end. It's AU, by the way, considering I was writing this before HBP.

But after rewriting the story, my new purpose is for you to think—and laugh so hard your family disowns you. If I may quote Marvel: Flame on.

It was one of the worse things I could imagine at that time in my life, and being a teenager with a vivid imagination, there were plenty bad things I could throw together.

But this… oh, this was horrifying.

I knew that in my sixth year at Hogwarts School I was slipping up in my Potion grade. It was absolute bollocks to me. Potions was like cooking, which I was bad at to begin with. After the crème brulée fiasco over summer break, Ron and I swore off cooking forever. Apparently, it is a very bad idea to try and melt sugar with 14 of your standard long stem matches. Mum said I could never become a good house wife or mother with that attitude, and in response I told her that I would rather run off and join the circus then to conquer the bewildering crème brulée. After that, Ron made a comment about elephant pies, at which point Mum declared the conversation over.

At any rate, Potions, like cooking, involved patience and care according to my tutor. This statement caused me to declare him a tad fruity, as my mind was steady on the match against the Ravenclaw house, and no where near patience and care. I always took pride in being somewhat of a sporty girl; it was something our family enjoyed, Quidditch. But behind the public eye I focused more on writing, go figure. If you're a close-close-friend, you would understand the irony that I would grow to love writing.

So in my sixth year, my Potion's Master (I always detested calling him Master, as if he had some superiority. As any and every "rebellious" teen, I despised feeling subordinate) Snape called me after class and berated me for my grades, and as defiant as I attempted to be at times, I'll admit, I was afraid to be caught alone with him. Dean, when we were dating, would draw me a picture every week; one week he drew a very humorous picture of Snape wearing a women's bathing suit and cap hunched over in bathtub resentfully holding a sponge on a stick. That picture made me feel better at times like these. Part of me wanted to slap that leer that off his face and straight to the rubbish bin, and another part of me want to run and hide under my bed, where the less threatening monsters would lie in wait.

I recall the conversation near perfect, although it's still a little fuzzy from shear horror.

"Weasley," he said, "You are aware your grades are… slacking?"

I wanted really badly to say "So?"—you know, something daring and forthright, but sadly, monosyllabic sarcastic comebacks are not my forte, and I merely just nodded.

"And as much as I enjoy to see you struggle after your disregard to last year's midyear project, it has been set as a rule that I must get you tutor."

Fairly shocked, I retorted, "Since when?"

He glared at my rebuttal and replied, "Since thirteen years ago when a Hufflepuff boy was overwhelmed by what his family stated was "an unjustly, over zealous seventh-year workload that drove him to the point of madness" and he hung himself out of the window in his dormitory."

Needless to say that shut me right up.

I was caught in a haze about a tutor, and my work, and that boy (who in my mind's eye was hanging by his necktie with a pencil in his temple), that the rest of his conversation was halted until I heard the words: "...And Draco Malfoy should be a suitable tutor for the time being..."

I glanced up then, and caught the most horrific, smug grin on his slimy face. It was the same grin that he gave Harry in my first year when he paired Malfoy with Harry for a Dueling match. I kind of wanted to hurt Snape at that moment. I've read enough of Percy's kung-fu books to know a thing or two about pressure points, and ninjas. And geishas, strangely enough. Percy's a weird kid.

That night I was in a tizzy. I ran to my brother and complained to him first—because rash fury and agreeable insults were exactly what I needed at that moment.

"He did WHAT?" I recall him hollering the second I told him. After that preceded a profanely colorful stream of words that would send my mother into a coma. Harry happened to walk in the dorm at the same moment Ron said a phrase that would dull a rainbow.

"Now… I know I'm an only child, but don't big brothers like leaving a good influence on their little sisters?" Harry was saying all this with a foaming mouth and a toothbrush and glass in his hand

"You'll never believe what that slimy git sodding done to my sister!"

"Yeah," was all I could say. What else could I do but agree with Ron?

"Who-da-wha?" Harry spit into his glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve and I'm pretty sure I muttered "Ew."

"Snape--He set MY Ginny to study with Malfoy!" Ron fumed.

Harry swore. "What do you mean?"

"Malfoy has to be _her_ tutor!"

"What the he-- wh-why?"

At this point I realized the conversation was no longer in my possession, and I almost began to find the two teenage boys' behavior humorous. Then Ron and Harry turned on me with so many questions about my grades, and the sessions, and Snape… I just sat, there, mouth slightly agape and a dull "Uuuh..." escaping my mouth as an answer.

"I think we should be sensible about this," Harry said, "let's think of a good way to handle this situation."

"He's right," I agreed.

Ron sat down and put his fist to his chin and mumbled in a kind of way that led me to understand he was accepting the situation, "So there's no way to avoid this?"

"I don't think so," I answered.

"This _better_ not interfere with Quidditch," Harry snapped. "I will take you _down_ quicker than Ron on a Cauldron Cake."

Ron glared at Harry. "Are you suggesting something, Harry?"

"I'm certainly not suggesting that you binge like a bear about to go into hibernation, if that's what you're asking."

Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry but continued, "Well, I still don't like the idea of this."

"I'd kill you if you did," Harry replied.

"Heh, thanks," Ron said. "The idea that my sister, a girl, would be alone with Malfoy…eugh."

"Okay Ron," I said quickly, "First off, we'll be in the library in plain view, and second, if you're implying what I think you're implying--"

"There seems to be a lot of implications today."

"—I'm going to have to come over there and slap you."

Harry seemed to brighten at the thought of me slapping his best mate and he said in a beat, "Ron thinks you and Malfoy are going to run off and have diabolical, pink-haired babies together."

"Yeah, I can just as quickly slap you too."

Ron laughed. "Diabolical babies…" he chuckled. And then he paused, thought about it, and shuddered.

Ron and Harry later left the room, and I waited there reading a comic book, the boys made it a habit to collect as many as possible now, and one of their stacks what just brushing the ceiling. I relaxed on Ron's bed until Dean came in.

"Hey," he greeted in a kind of awkward, caught-off-guard way. "What're you doing?"

"Oh, just reading," I replied promptly, setting the comic down and prepared to leave—yet this had kind of been the reason I was waiting. My lovely ex-boyfriend. "Would you rather I go--"

"Oh no, you can stay," he said quickly, scratching the small of his back," It's just that I was a little surprised. I mean—I had heard you up here with Ron and… well, no you can stay." He went to his bedside and fumbled around for his notebook. I hated to see him act so strangely.

I flipped the comic book over in my hands and said calmly, "So how are you?" It had only one month or so since our breakup, but I couldn't understand his behavior. "Or should I say, are you okay? You seem off?"

He opened the drawer next to him with a little bit of force and plucked from it a piece of charcoal. "I'm just a little frustrated." His tall frame flopped onto the bed, on a quilt someone in his family made him.

"Not with me…?"

"No! Not with you," he replied as if it should be obvious. "No, no, no…" He became quiet. I didn't want to push any topic, but I felt weird just going back to reading. But as if he knew my thoughts he bluntly explained, "Fight."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he murmured, "with a Seamus... over a project." He paused and looked up with the charcoal hovering over the paper.

"Okay," I nodded, and returned to the comic book gradually, he liked to be quiet in bad moods. Dean and I had dated for a brief three months, but whenever he was upset during that time he would sit down and be very quiet and busy himself with drawing or picking at his stubby nails or reading.

As I read, I believe he would glance at me briefly, as if I was going to jump up and run off. On the contrary his small checks made me stay still and try to concentrate harder on the comic. But my mind was drifting.

We were dating after Michael and I broke up. He comforted me when I was distressed, and I may have mistaken that as something else. Unfortunately, Dean would date frequently and for a while I wonder if I was just another girl. But then again, he might have been just a rebound. I was foolish in my affection, the only reason I think I began to date Michael was because he was the first person to ever ask me out, as a girlfriend. I was so happy to be liked; I created emotions to be with him. And plus, the catalyst to our breaking up was the whole Ravenclaw-Gryffindor Quidditch thing—not a very stable relationship.

It was a nice pair for a while; we had a lot to talk about and a lot in common. Some friends would joke that I was too short for him. Oh, and I thought that standing next to Ron was weird looking. Except for school, Dean was all-around talented. He obsessed with Muggle football and eventually tried out to join the Quidditch team. He entered various contests for his artwork and interesting prose, but lacked a confidence that allowed him to share his product—besides the little pictures he drew for me on lined paper. I was very pleased to know he never drew for any other girl.

My thoughts were interrupted by the long swipe of Dean's charcoal on the page. I looked up and he dusted at the picture with his thumb. "What are you making?" I asked as he made some choppy scratches with the stick.

He shrugged. Maybe I shouldn't have interrupted him. "Something happy," he sighed sadly. He opened the drawer to take out a white piece of chalk that I recognized him to use for highlights. He exhaled deeply as the chalk touched the page.

"Well tell me more about your vacation," I said, "You only mentioned that bit about that pizza shop."

"What do you want to hear?" he said in a moody way. His brown eyes set on me another time.

I set down the comic book and sat forward. He cringed when I moved. "I'm making conversation, Dean."

"I'm sorry," he replied, tilting the sketchbook on his chest. "I told you I'm in no good mood, conversation comes hard." His squared shoulders shrugged the book under his arm now, folded it close and put it away. "Fine, let's talk. I'll… try."

I smiled, but couldn't think of a question that wasn't redundant. "What were drawing?"

"None of your business."

"You artists are so flipping moody…"

He clicked his tongue and slumped lazily on his pillow. His eyelids drifted calmly over his serene eyes and he crossed his arms across his chest. "Why do you always want to know about my work?"

"I don't _always_…"

"I think you're infatuated with me."

"With your complexity maybe. With your talent maybe."

"This is the tale of the story too often told," he said.

"What?"

"And the recollection of the public secrets exposed…"

I giggled. "Are you…?"

He smiled shyly and said, "This is the fable, the epic, the lullaby. The adjective followed by a noun followed by an alibi. This is the diary, memoirs, and epitaph. This is the classic counting on the comeback. A reminiscence of the repeated words; and the secrets behind them, often overlooked. Anticipate the end…" he trailed off. "There's more," he said, "but that's enough of that."

"I've never even heard one of your poems!" I exclaimed, instantly rapt.

He smiled brightly in a goofy way and looked towards the ceiling. "Now you have!" he said in a funny voice. "Now excuse me, I need to be depressed."

"Need?"

"Desper-_ate_-ly to the infinite." There's the Dean I loved.

The fearfully anticipated and loathed tutoring session was to come that Saturday. I had to spend and entire Saturday afternoon with someone I not only hated, but desperately wanted to choke. Hermione laughed when she saw me storming out of the common room with my Potions book and rucksack and called after me, "Have fun, we'll be here pondering your demise."

I turned around and glared at Hermione. "You're not making this any better."

"Well that's not my job, life is what _you_ make it."

I thrust my arm dramatically out at her, head bowed in a state of melodrama and cried, "Leave me in peace!" And then I marched off.

I was supposed to head to towards library, but it just rubbed me the wrong way to be punctual for a Malfoy of any sort or class. I went to the kitchens for food.

I had gotten a few slices of candied apples, and may I mention I love candied apples. Most people look at them like a novelty, but I love their deep color and cinnamon taste—oh! It is so good. But as I am getting off topic, I should continue. See, I felt pretty content with myself. Oh, I was bad—or as bad as someone slightly delusional in the concept of rebellion could be.

I was told to sit a table 24, or it could have been 17, I'm bad with numbers, which is why I never dreamed of taking up Arithmancy. But as I got to table 24 or 17, Malfoy wasn't there. I checked my watch, then my time table, then my agenda, then the little papers I always scribble on until nearly my entire bag was spilled on the table. Every source I had said that at noon at table 24 or 17, I had a tutoring session, and it was about fifteen past right now!

And Malfoy wasn't here… So much for _my_ maniacal ways.

"Weasley," I heard a voice mutter.

Oh that was it. That ferret was in for one heck of an explanation.

"I was waiting here for-_ever_! Do you have _any_ responsibility?" I raged, "My grades are at stake!"

"I saw you walk past the library doors at noon."

"I was… being sarcastic. Haha?"

He gave me an awful, condescending glare, and I became sick to my stomach. Quick wit was not one of my strong points, and clearly was his. I was doomed. Doomed to an hour of sarcasm and Potions, that's like hell deep-fried, slapped on a platter, and sprinkled with parsley.

… I _loathe_ parsley.

"Quick wit is not one of your strong points," he declared.

Curse you, irony… I shake my fist at your sense of juxtapositional humor.

He looked at the table cluttered in my school-related nostalgia and sighed in a tired sort of way. "Organize much?" He brushed away some parchment and sat down. "Yeah, I don't really want to do this either. I asked Snape if Terry or Granger could do this… eh, he wouldn't work around it. This will look good on my resume anyway. What's Hermathia Root?"

"What?" I stammered, caught off-guard by the abrupt question.

"You heard me."

"Sorry, I kind of lost you when you called Hermione by her surname."

He sighed, and then repeated, "What's Hermathia Root?"

"Can I look it up?"

"No."

"It's, um," I trailed off and began tapping my quill against the table, "Well, it's a root."

"No, it's the name of a potion that you should have done in you fifth year."

"That was unfair, it was a trick question."

"How is it a trick question? You already made the potion!"

I set down my quill and kept my eyes to my unopened book the rest of the time. I was half too timid and half too annoyed to look him in the face, ignoring him and solely regarding him when absolutely necessary. It truly was one of the most uncomfortable moments I could remember, and mind you, my mother makes me (yes, even at sixteen) wear tights to formal occasions.

It's not that I wasn't trying though. No—I was giving it my all, but I guess that's not much in Potions... I just hated being incompetent in front of an adversary. I hated feeling stupid. Hated it.

"Okay, hour's up."

"Thank you..."

"What did you learn?"

"Tons of things from… Potions VI, Chapter 3," I replied, glancing at the Chapter page of the book with the slight giddiness of a child returning from the coal mines.

"Give me three facts."

It was now or never, perhaps I could redeem my complete idiocy in Potions, perhaps I could take my chance to laugh my enemy in the face, perhaps I could…

"Um, Hermathia Root is not an actual root and that squiggly plant thing--"

"-- Dhemedra Rhino?"

"Yeah that, when you touch it, it curls up and makes flipping wicked Memory Draughts."

"Okay, for the next session, I want you to research and take notes on Chapter Three and give me an essay on the three main points of it, including details on that squiggly-plant-thing." He said the last three words in such an slow and patronizing mock that I had an urge to kick him in the shins and run.

"You can't do that…"

"I'm supposed to make you pass, there's also a lot on my shoulders too, you know. I have way too many people breathing down my neck as it is too make sure I get this school thing right."

"Well, you're not the one getting marks on this."

"Trust me, my marks go beyond school," he said with a casual force and a shrug. "You pass, we both win. And if you throw this course in some sort of twisted way to bring me down a notch, then you're a sick person."

"Hey, way to jump the gun, buddy." I replied at the ludicrous statement.

So I had mutual threats from my "tutor", teacher, and Quidditch team. I HAD to pass. Like I said: hell, deep-fried, parsley.

I stormed into my dorm that night and flopped on my bed face down on the pillow. I could hear one of my dorm mates walking over to the side of my bed. "You're going to die if you keep that up."

I looked up at her and said back, "Excuse me, can't you see I'm trying to eat my pillow?"

She smiled and leaned against the post. Looking back, I regret not really getting to know her. Her name was Ellen or Emma or Emily or. . . some "E" name. Oh no wait… it was Joan. Joan? How'd I get an "E" from that?... Anyway, she had a serious grudge against Quidditch, and thus, I didn't really value her opinion. She once said that I acted like a fanatical teenage boy when it came to Quidditch, I told her to "bite me."

"What's the matter, Ginny?" she said in a soothing way.

I gave a kind of whine. "I don't like being dumb."

"You're not dumb."

"I have a tutor, that's dumb."

"Oh, I heard about that… with Malfoy?"

"How on _earth_ did you hear about it?"

"Well… you and Ron and Harry were yelling quite a lot about it last night."

"Eugh."

"You know what, I know Malfoy's not the greatest, so I'll help you out. The other day, him and bunch of Slytherins began chanting mud—well, you know—at me. And maybe… maybe we could, you know, get back at him?"

I looked up at her and grinned. After five years of sharing a room with someone who feels like a stranger, I suddenly wanted to hug her.

Nothing brings people together like a hunger for vengeance and utter hatred.

A/N: If you're too lazy to review, type in "cinnamon bun." Why? Because cinnamon buns are a lazy food but are very tasty. This way I will know you are lazy but tasty, or lazy but… nice? Rock on nice people, my heart goes to you all.

Oh yes, by the way, I was thinking of changing my pen name, just you don't get freak out and you get an author alert and your all "Say _what_?" It'll still have "Ave" in the name.

Love.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Mr. Lorry: Well, my dear Charles, this story came out quite late didn't it?

Charles: Why yes! Perhaps the author is in some morbid twist of fate and I should go risk saving her with disregard toward political prosecution and death threats towards yours truly!

Mr. Lorry (while sipping tea): Charles, don't be such an utter dolt.

...did I just write a mini fic ofTale of Two--? oh dear...

* * *

"Tell us how they work," Fred called after me as I left the shop, pleased that I was walking in their misshapen, mishap-making footsteps. Joan and I tested out these prototype earpieces. The new model allowed us to converse with each other for long distances, wirelessly. 

I tucked the earpieces in my pocket as I put my cloak on. Joan glanced up at me from her bed. "Quidditch," I explained. "We have a match today."

Joan nodded. She was writing something in her awful little blue diary. It positively made me shudder every time I saw her doing so, partially because I have a serious grudge towards diaries and partially because she wrote in it with a dramatic magenta quill that spurted out a magenta ink so pink that it could give one a seizure if they stared at it to long.

"Joan," I said, "So now that we talk and stuff, do you want to come to my game?" I presented a huge, trying smile.

"Not on your life," she replied with a bright, nonchalant air, brushing the aggravating quill beneath her chin.

"Grand," I said through gritted teeth. (See, there's a reason why I forgot her name.)

"Ta ta..." She waved me off with her maddening quill. I then swore to myself that one day I was going to transfigure that quill into a turkey, which we learned to do in our fourth year.

I was making my way to the Quidditch pitch, which was about the only time I got to walk in the halls without dragging that wretched bag on my shoulder. It was a nice little relief. And the halls were swarming with students in cloaks and scarves brandishing their house colors.

The team had laced up and grabbed their equipment in silence. I don't know when the tradition started, but for the first game of every year, Gryffindors prepared in the locker rooms in complete silence. Harry said he'd done it for every year he'd been there. No one talked until we saw the pitch.

I grabbed my Ricochet 247, which was a great broom even though the name always worried me. It was the first broom I ever owned. Actually, I still have it today…

I stood next to my partner in crime, Louis le Fevre, as the team walked into the cavernous hallway leading to the pitch. Louis was an exchange student from Beauxbatons, and an amazing beater. One game, he nailed a bloke from Slytherin near the kidney with a bludger, and for weeks he was bleeding from his—well at any rate, Louis was a good beater, and that's basically the story. I don't think I have to go too much into it.

Louis stood stoically with his eyes on the large wooden doors in front of us, ready for them to give way. I licked my lips. _Crap, I should've put on Chapstick. My lips are going to get thrashed._ Geoff always has Chapstick.

I turned around and got Geoff attention. I mimed with my finger as if I was putting Chapstick on my lips. Geoff mouthed _What?_ I repeated the pantomime. And his eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. He gave a smug smile and waved his finger between the two of us. _You and me?_ He mouthed. I rolled my eyes and angrily mouthed _Chapstick!_

He apparently hadn't understood me and made a few inappropriate gestures towards the locker room. _Later_, he said.

_No!_ I replied indignantly. I pointed at my lips again and said _Chapstick!_

_What?_

"Chapstick!" I yelled.

Geoff was taken off guard and clumsily reached into his pocket and threw me the Chapstick. "Gosh! _Thank_ you…" I muttered as I began to apply it liberally. As I was doing so, I felt something like lasers bearing down on me. My eyes slowly rolled up to see Harry staring severely at me. He was fuming. I apologetically capped the Chapstick.

I turned and offered the Chapstick back to Geoff. He winked at me as he reached for it. My arm recoiled and I whipped the tube, hitting him smack on the cheek. "Ow!" he cried.

Harry spun around, reached back, and knocked Geoff in the head. We snickered.

Suddenly the doors began to creak open, and the moment we saw the pitch, before anyone else could think to say a word, even with all the frustration on our minds, Dean burst out singing, "WHY DO YOU BUILD ME UP, BUTTERCUP, BABY? JUST TO LET ME DOWN--"

"Oh heavens…" Harry muttered.

"—AND MESS ME AROUND."

Louis glanced down at me and muttered something in French. Something positive, I understood from his smile.

"AND WORST OF ALL"

The crowds were cheering.

"YOU NEVER CALL WHEN YOU SAY YOU WILL"

I smacked my lips.

"BUT I LOVE YOU STILL!"

I looked towards Ron and Harry. "This is a bet, isn't it?" I asked.

"I would put money on it, yes," Ron replied.

"I NEED YOU!"

"I bet Seamus put him up to it," Harry said as he led them onto the field.

"MORE THAN ANYONE, DARLING."

"He is not a good singer," Louis said aloud. As we neared the center of the pitch.

"YOU KNOW THAT I HAVE FROM THE START!"

"Ooo, ooo," I sang behind him, giggling.

"SO BUILD ME UP"

The Hufflepuff team met up with us.

"BUTTERCUP"

We all lined up.

"DON'T BREAK MY HEART!"

Dean inhaled heavily and smiled, satisfied. The crowds roaring in laughter around us.

"Are you finished," Madame Hooch asked bitterly with her arms crossed.

"Oh, yes, quite," he replied promptly, wide-eyed. "Don't let me hold you up." She glared at him. "Tension-breaker," he said under his breath to her with a wink.

Madame Hooch had the captains shake hands. Ron leaned over and asked Dean, "How much did Seamus pay you to do that?"

"Five galleons."

"Oh heck, I'd do it too."

Red and gold and yellow and black pennants blazed the pitch that day, but it was not at all the ideal game day. It was late September. A disappointing drizzle clinging to our robes like the prerequisite to sweat. The sky, though, was an unusually bright yellow behind the grey clouds.

Dean's serenade must have acted as some twisted form of good luck, because we won the game. We kicked major badger tail and laughed mightily as they scurried back to their insignificant burrows. So, of course, there was a party that night. First game of the season to Gryffindor, how could there not be?

Fred and George decided to add to the pile of traditions last year, stating that the Beaters would always throw the parties for Gryffindor's victories. Well, they quickly realized in their seventh year that a tradition is quite futile with no one left to carry it out. So they "trained" me to be a Beater and quite literally "passed on the torch." The torch was a sparkler. It burned my finger. I had originally wanted to be a Chaser (or Seeker, but honestly, what chance had I at that?), but a Beater was honorable too, right?

Amid the celebration I sat and politely listened to Hermione tell me about her future knitting plans when Louis, who I think had too many butterbeers (sans the butter), came stumbling down the Boy's Dormitory stairs. He and his fellow sixth years decided on initiating a rousing game of spin-the-bottle. He asked me if I wanted to play, and my mind said, "Teenage hormones... must resist urge. Must retain sanity... Cannot lower self to that level... must--"

"Sure!" I said.

"Great!" he hollered, stumbling over by the fire and waving a bottle in the air.

I looked back at Hermione, who gave me a kind of glare.

"Don't kid yourself, Ginny; we both know you're not that cheap," Hermione sighed. "Plus, you're too afraid to kiss a guy, much less date one for over three weeks."

Before responding to Hermione's snide comment, I called out to Louis, "On second thought, I'm not that cheap, okay?"

He nodded.

I turned to Hermione and gave her a disgusted look. "Not true," I said.

She had a smug and silly look, as if she gotten some point across. I rolled my eyes in jest. She looked away and began talking about her knitting again. I don't know why I even offered to join in on the game, if the bottle had landed on me, I would have squirmed my way around it. I invented ways to avoid that "goodnight kiss" Michael would nonchalantly mention when we were dating.

A mixture of fifth and sixth years, and a few hopeful male fourths and giggly girl fourths, grabbed a pillow and sat down in a circle around the aptly-named and highly decorated Bottle of Love, "the only bottle in existence that you were pleased to find yourself at the bottom of."

A girl with a Gryffindor banner tied around her shoulders like a cape leaned forward and spun it so that the red and gold ribbons attached to the bottle blazed in circles around it. It stopped, pointing at a smarmy looking fellow, who began to grin and leaned in for the kill. There was a wave of "Wooo!" around the circle, and I began to get uncomfortable just watching.

Joan sat down at the circle. How dare she, I thought, join in on a celebration she didn't support in the first place. She winked at Louis. I was kind of hoping the bottle wouldn't land on him.

I glanced away from the circle and saw Ron looking at me peculiarly. He glanced at the circle and looked away. Hermione was criticizing me, and Ron was warning me. Hermione caught on that my mind was elsewhere and suggested that we'd go check out the snack table.

When we walked over to the snack table (i.e. a study table, loaded with stolen goodies), where Ron and all his friends were hanging out, Ron gave me an approving grin, but my chest felt empty. Ron had this radical, communistic Ginny-doesn't-date campaign, and it's not that I abhor communists or anything, they just have terrible health coverage and it's something you have to watch out for. And being the youngest and the only girl, I received a lot a "family wisdom." All together, this made it quite hard for me to date and break the news softly.

I took up a bottle of strawberry soda and stood amidst the group of seventh years, talking about the game and classes and whatnot. I was enjoying the conversation between Dean, Hermione, and Neville, to which I would occasionally pipe up if I could get my word in.

It's been said that those who have little friends value the ones the have, and those who have many friends value their true ones. Well for me, Hermione was someone I valued because I could confide in her. But strangely, I don't think Hermione felt the same way I did about her. I looked up to her, I guess you could say, and I know she cared about me, but in a motherly sort of way. I could appreciate this relationship, but it wasn't quite the friendship I wanted. The only other people who I can think of who may have felt the same way I did about friendships was Harry and Neville, but the difference was that everyone knew Harry's name.

I heard a fit of laughter erupt from behind me. Our posh group all glanced over. And I laughed to see a boy with a very disgusted face glaring at Louis, who had the bottle pointing at him. Louis threw his hands in the air and cried out, "I'm done!"

We all laughed at the circle, and the conversation then returned to its usual after the random bout of amusement. My mind wandered off from my relational statuses and I began to engage myself in a hilarious story Dean was telling; he was always a magnificent speaker, charming and enthralling.

A hand fell on my shoulder and I turned to see Louis, he was smiling brightly, and didn't look at as smashed as he did before. He looked to the group. "What did I miss?" he asked. Louis seemed to easily fit into the crowd of seventh years. He looked the part and talked the part, and knew some of the academics that they did, since his school taught a different curriculum.

"Looks like you were having fun at Spin the Bottle," Dean commented, rather perturbed to be interrupted.

"Looks like there will be no snogging for me tonight," Louis replied. I giggled, because Louis, with his strong French accent, could never manage to say the word snogging. Well, he could say "snogging-g," I suppose, but the problem was that he always put a heavy pronunciation on the last "g" ...twice.

Harry was distant from the group, not unusual, and brightly whispered something to Ron. Ron chuckled and said aloud, "I'm sure he would have kissed you anyway."

Harry made a small snicker behind the back of his hand.

"Yeah, you know I'm never quite sure how you English folk… 'swing,' is it?" he replied. The seventh and sixth year boys made an extra effort to rip on Louis since he was new. But Louis was ever so resilient to them. He had a brilliant and almost ridiculous confidence.

Hermione said aside to Seamus. "Seamus, when are you leaving for Greenland?"

Seamus detached himself from the other conversation. "Hm?"

"When are you—"

"Oh, in two weeks," he said. "We couldn't get a Portkey cleared until then. I'm going to be _so _late in the curriculum."

I laughed. "Like you care," I butted in. "I heard you talking to Dean; you just want to hook up with some Greenlandic bird."

Seamus looked insulted. "I'd never," he said simply.

"I'm also sure you never bet him five galleons to sing 'Build Me Up Buttercup'." Hermione nodded towards Dean

"No," he said indignantly. "But that does remind me…" He took a small money pouch from his robe and elbowed Dean. Dean saw the bag, nodded and pocketed it. Dean made a face and Seamus sneered back.

Noticing the obvious transaction, Harry said, "Is that your bribe, Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "Naw, hair care products."

The festivities continued, and the group continued to talk until the rest of the common room began to thin in numbers. Lavender delicately checked her watch and groaned. "It's nearly half-past one."

Most of them started to yawn and groan, display sudden onsets of fatigue, and set off towards their dorms. Ron however smiled at Hermione and nodded towards a chess board that Harry was sitting at. "Sure," she said, "I would love to commentate on one game—but only _one_ game."

I leaned over to Louis and mumbled, "They'll be up to three watching Ron win."

Louis took my arm in his and I was slightly taken aback. "Well, may I walk you to your staircase?" he said.

"You're a character," I stated. He looked hopeful with a brilliant, unabashed smile. "It's seriously only ten seconds away."

"Ten seconds I will forever cherish," he said as he started walking. I jerked forward after him, conceding.

Louis was a huge flirt, I think he liked the idea of meeting so many new people, and so many new girls. He constantly flirted with me. I would always leave him with a bland comment; it didn't seem to make him falter. Like I said, he was ever so resilient.

"Well this is my stop," I said, "I hope I didn't wear you out."

He flashed his debonair smile. "Fantastic quidditching today," he said. (He later explained that in French the word for Quidditch was both a noun and verb. His use of the word "quidditching" had confused us until Seamus finally cracked and confronted him on it.) Louis turned to leave and, attempting an English accent, said, "Bonsoir, ma chérie!"

I shook my head and muttered, "You vicious sweet talker."

"I try," he laughed, "Good night."

"'Night…" I muttered.

I walked the stairs to my dormitory, but stopped at the balcony to watch Ron, Hermione, and Harry. They tended to be loud for three people who often kept to themselves I noticed.

"It's very intense," Hermione remarked. "Within sixteen moves, Potter is deadlocked within his second check." And Harry would move his piece, and Ron would counter it, until finally, Harry was trapped. Ron would say "Checkmate." Hermione would cry out, "Oh! And it's over for Pawn Man Potter!"

Harry glared at Hermione and she would say "What?" and he would playfully push at her, demanding a rematch from Ron. Hermione'd exclaimed indignantly, "I said one game!"

"But it took just five minutes," Ron reasoned.

I giggled softly. My light laugh caught Harry's ear and he looked up to the balcony. I was put off guard, embarrassed to have him catch me watch him in the intimacy of their friendship. Ron and Hermione followed Harry's gaze.

"Is my failure amusing to you?" Harry asked. His attention threw me into an embarrassed state. I colored in my cheeks.

"No," I said shyly, nervous to be confronted.

I quickly bid them goodnight with a sheepish smile before my whole face was consumed with a burning red glow. Harry still had that effect.

It felt so good that night to curl up and just sleep, after the long day. I was so exhausted, and not in the least bit looking forward to any form of tutoring tomorrow.

But at least Joan and I could put "plan B--not A" into action.

* * *

"Plan B" consisted of some of the most maniacal plans ever devised by woman. Joan and I went over our strategies several times. We had written a Plan A, but I pointed out that Plan A's never worked, so we ditched the idea and came up with Plan B instead. 

I was making my way to the library and Joan was rambling in my ear about her problems.

I flattened my hair to make sure my hair was covering my ear with the device in it and muttered, "If I keep talking to you down this hall people will think _I'm_ a rambling loon."

She made a huffy snort in response and I think that I could even hear her cross her arms over the static.

"Okay," I mumbled, "I'm going in..."

"Oh-hoho, you sound so serious! Oh, I'm so excited." I could hear the bed springs squeak beneath her over the earpiece. She must be some kind of happy to be bouncy about. I, on the other hand, was scared out of my mind. She continued to giggle in such a sickening stereotypical way.

"Covert missions are no time to giggle!" I hissed, hiding my face behind a book.

"Sorry..."

I calmly sat down at table 24 or 17 and opened my book. Malfoy made no move to welcome me or make any notions that I was there, except for the fact that he began to talk about potions, as if he were reading notes aloud to himself more than to another person.

"What a prat," Joan complained, and after a while she said in a shockingly serious voice, "Go. Do the first thing."

I set down my quill from note-taking and reached into my rucksack, retrieving a metal nail file. I began to file my nails. Joan snickered in my ear. Her persona was suddenly shifting. "Are you doing it? Are you?" she pleaded.

"Would you mind?" Malfoy said in a tired voice.

"Oh, so I am here…" I commented, thoroughly sounding bored, not lifting my eyes from my nails. Joan's behaviors began to mix with mine; she, after all, was much more wise in the ways of affecting a man.

"Well of course you sodding are…"

"You know I walk in here," I began blandly, emotion growing in my voice. I felt cold, like I was about to shiver, but I kept up the front. "And you just don't acknowledge me or anything. It's like you don't care!"

"Perfect…" Joan whispered, I could hear her crunching on something on the other end. She was living it up, enjoying our show. "You know, this could be a new WWN drama show."

"It's _very_ possible that I don't care," Draco replied.

I crossed my arms and furrowed my eyebrows. "That is _so _like you." Joan giggled and I felt so unlike myself; I found myself pretending to react to the situation like I was her.

"You're crazy," he muttered, reaching for his noted again. Looking them over, he said, "Now actually pay attention."

I made to pick up my nail file.

"And no nail stuff," he added with a certain whine behind his voice. He put his hand over the file and pushed it to the table.

I slapped my hand to the table. "You cannot tell me what I can and cannot file!"

My life is a circus.

"Would you quit it? I will make Snape fail you two times over!" Malfoy nearly shouted this, which cause Madame Pince to "Shhhhhhh!" at us, and fling her arm threateningly towards the door.

…An absolute circus.

"Abandon file!" Joan shrieked dramatically.

Circus, circus, circus…

"You can't really make him fail me… can you?"

Draco shrugged. "You wouldn't want me to try though, would you? Now quit it and listen. It'll go by faster."

So I went back to taking notes, and Malfoy went back to his monotone facade; and Joan declared that if I wasn't going to do anything soon, she was going to paint her nails-- which I'm sure she was doing anyway. Malfoy was discussing Avagodro feathers in a Callous Draught. Our first plan really didn't work too well…

He was a very static figure, I noticed. So dull. How could he be so sarcastic to my brother and such a good Quidditch player and, heck, a Death Eater, for all I know, and be so dull?

"Try again..." RL whined in my ear. "Oh… and what polish should I use? Cough once for red and twice for purple."

I coughed twice.

"Really? I was sure you'd pick red."

"Malfoy," I said politely, interrupting his monologue about Potion. He glanced up and I leaned forward, lacing my fingers under my chin with my elbows on the table. "Are you gay?"

"Excuse me?" He hissed in disbelief, averting his eyes from me to his text. Joan reveled again.

"Oh, nothing… I was just wondering," I said carelessly, sitting back and prepping my quill to my note paper as if I were ready for him to start talking again.

"No, I'm not gay! What would make you think that?" He became incensed, and I was quite satisfied to see this emotion. Perhaps he wasn't as static as I thought.

"Nothing! Nothing, I was just wondering!" I replied forcefully while shrugging him off innocently.

"Well there has to be a reason why you would think that," Malfoy said frantically, completely abandoning his book. "You just don't ask people if they're gay for no reason!"

I rolled my eyes dramatically, and let out a heavy sigh, shoulders drooping and all, "Well... it's just that you come off as a bit, mmm, tarty... at times."

"What?" he looked absolutely bewildered. RL was enjoying it as she gave a deep chuckle while singing through the static, "Stand down, little man… stand down." in my ear.

"It's no big deal, Malfoy, I've read it in all the books. Young men your age tend to display different preferences as an act of defiance towards society." I gave a pitiful click of my tongue. "How's your relationship with you father? I bet that's it..."

Malfoy stood up, and I suddenly remembered what had happened to his father, but I felt little pity. "This is ridiculous! There is no… "preferences," no-- no defiance," he was beginning to stutter. "How do I come off as tarty?" He began pacing, just slightly, and muttering to himself, "I can't possibly give this impression to everyone; no one's said anything. You know, I blame my mum," he paused and pointed at me. "That inane woman sent me to etiquette and ballroom lessons!"

"How charming of Mr. Homophobe," Joan commented.

I suppressed a laugh in my throat, which came out as a kind of a snort.

He leaned forward on the table and came too close for comfort, which is about a foot for future reference. He closed his eyes and replied calmly. "I know it. I am not gay. I listen to R.E.O. Speedwagon, and they are the voice for straight men everywhere..."

"Uh, Malfoy," I said, sitting back and blinking spasmodically (there was a twitch in my left eye that wouldn't go away, so I put my hand to it for a bit), "Could you ack off?"

He sat down and put his head between his arms, looking quite sordid. "Do other people think this?"

"No, no, of course not. But anyway, being gay is nothing to be ashamed about." I could hear Loon clapping. I put my hand forward and patted him on the shoulder. His breakdown made no sense to me whatsoever, but I was just glad we had cracked him.

But when I touched him, he seemed to recoup. He coolly sat up and looked at me. He calmly took out his wand and pointed it at me. "Revo Reveale," he said plainly. The act was done with such normalcy, I hardly could register what was happening. The wand was still pointed at me as I felt a hot-cold sensation in my stomach that made me lurch forward and begin to cough as if I were to vomit. "Speak of word of this conversation to anyone else and your tongue will be ripped out instantly," he said in a strange infuriated serenity.

"Ginny?..." Joan called in my ear.

"Right," I coughed, "No crazy talk… Is this how you usually handle a situation after you have a mental breakdown?" And suddenly there was a piercing cry of static in my ear. I let out a split-second scream before I clasped my hand over my mouth. I was still making some sort of noise, to which Malfoy instantly responded.

"Silencium," he whispered

My voice halted in my throat, but I was still screaming in my head as I clutched at my ear to rip the shrilling equipment from my ear and throw in across the room, hitting a book shelf. _Oh that was stupid…_

Malfoy stood. "Accio." The ear piece came whizzing to him. He clutched it in his hand and inspected in briefly before glaring at me with raised eyebrows. "Come on," he said resolutely, "Get up." And he took me by my arm, nearly dragging me, behind bookcases far off from the study tables.

He pushed my shoulder against the books with one arm and held the ear piece between our faces with the other. "Explain," he breathed, "Emplorium."

I wanted to pretend that my voice hadn't come back, but a little bit of that scream was left in my throat and came out as a little "eep." I put up my hands defensively and pushed at him. "It was just a prank," I said hoarsely. "W-- I was just trying to bother you, I didn't expect you to go all loony bin on me," I snapped, true anger welling.

He wouldn't take his eyes off me, as if I were going to move any second. He brought the piece to his lips with his eyes still fixed and said into it, "Listen, if anyone is on this other end and says any tiny bit against me, I will kill you. I will hunt you down, and I will kill you." He dropped the ear piece.

"Oh honestly," I said sarcastically. "Kill?"

He put more pressure on my shoulder. More angry than scared, I refused to appear pained, gritting my teeth and glaring. "Now, Weasley," he began civilly, "I know my type and yours have never really gotten along, would you like to try pushing that further?"

Have you ever been through a hurricane or a tropical storm? Last year (in modern time now) I traveled to St. John, and we were caught in a hurricane. But when the storm hit us, it passed rather quickly. Some harsh winds, dying down, and then the eye. That eye was an eerie calm. Everything turned grey in that moment. You could feel the danger in the uniform movement of the air—it wasn't a breeze, but a shift in the atmosphere. All remained still. Very dangerous, but so very still.

Now forgive the blatant symbolism, but in that moment I relate that Draco was very much so like the eye of a storm, calm but ominous. And I found it frightening that his eyes reflected his nature. I could see myself in the black reflection of his pupils, and felt like I was absorbed in his eeriness. The grayness of some looming threat.

"Would you?" he repeated.

I had completely forgotten what he was talking about. "Wha…What was that again?"

His face became hard as a bed of nails and he said, "I'm quite fed up with your jokes, and you in general. You're not going to go snitch on me, are you?"

"Well, if I do I get my tongue ripped out, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, no then," I said with a nervous laugh.

"Good."

"But since I'm not aloud to say anything to anyone else, can I still make a sarcastic quip to you with the guarantee of not getting brutally disfigured?"

"Eh, sure, go ahead."

"You know," I said a little seriously, "you're belligerent and mad and you have all the makings of taking over the world."

"Yeah?" he chuckled with a childish smile, looking at the ground with eyes that shined for the first time that I'd ever seen.

* * *

A/N: Insane? Perhaps. Morbid? Maybe. Awesome? Totally. 

Review cinnamon bunnies!

Much love and thanks to: **madxmadamexmim, Calla-ForEvEa **(you reviewed on this fic v1.0, didn't you?)**, Mishavay, Alatariel97, Funnykido, BlackMystick **(Aren't you a veteran reviewer too?) **, Possum132, Silver Magiccraft **

If you want to see the product of my sweet Paint skillz, check out this picture I made of a giant Snape head yelling at Ginny--I set it as my homepage in my profile.I think the picture would have gone better with the first chapter, but I didn't think of it then. Give your eyes a rest from all them words.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Welcome back, gentle readers.

* * *

Hogwarts is something like a small town. Usually everyone knows what's going down, and if you're not in on a situation, it's easy to feel like a complete social outcast. Well… it's funny how when you and a gossip are the only ones in on the biggest current affairs, you still feel like a complete freak. 

I just can't win.

"Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, ohmigosh!" Joan shrieked frantically as I sauntered into the dorm.

"What are you freaking over?" I asked nervously.

"I can't believe he actually did that to you!" She ran over and grabbed my sleeve and dragged me to the bed, sitting me down and staring at me wide-eyed. She just stared expectantly at me in silence. I blinked. "What are you going to do?" she asked impulsively.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "I have NO idea what you're talking about."

"That spell, Ginny!—he used on you where you can't—oh..." she trailed off and thought for a second. "I have this friend-"she said evasively, raising a brow.

"--Oh really?" I perked up and smiled as we fidgeted to face each other.

"And this guy did a spell on her so she can't talk about something or else her tongue will be viciously torn out," she stated wiggling her fingers as if to add drama.

"Oh, what a pity..."

"Yeah, and _her_ friend—my friend's friend—well she heard the whole thing and she's wondering if she should tell someone."

"That depends, does the friend's friend have a death threat from the guy that cast the spell?" I asked with an obvious glare. My tongue was tingling with anxiety for the conversation.

"Oh, uh, yeah, kinda..." Joan scratched the back of her neck and leaned back, crossing her arms. "Crap..."

I patted Joan's shoulder. "Perhaps," I began softly, "If both, or at least one, values their life or tongue, maybe neither should say anything… well not for awhile, at least."

"Crap..." Joan repeated.

"Yeah it really sucks, but I'm sure your friend likes her tongue a whole heck of a lot. So don't worry right now, _they_ can get through this."

"Yeah, I guess..."

"Hey wanna go down to the kitchen and get a smoothie?" I asked brightly

"Are you crazy?" she hissed. "I think we can wait until lunch, I don't feel like getting caught."

"Hello! Your friend has a death threat over her head, I think she can risk a smoothie."

"True…"

"Then it's settled. I'm having strawberry-banana, what are _you_ having?"

"We're going to try a new exercise," Harry said. "Instead of Bludgers, we're just going to use two Quaffles and I want you two to hit them through the hoops, this'll test your aim." Harry turned around on his broom and called down the field, "Geoff, Jack, Dean! You're going to catch the balls once they go through and make a combination pass using both balls at once. Ron you try to block them, if you catch one, through it back to the Beaters. Keep the balls moving the whole time."

The Quidditch positions have changed a lot since Oliver left, Angelina was Captain in my fourth year and Ron had just become Keeper; that was nothing much. But then that crazy cat Umbridge showed up and then Harry, Fred and George got booted so two blokes named Jack and Geoffrey and I got to take over, with me as Seeker.

Ron recommended me, of course, because I was his sister, and very small. I could fly pretty well, okay, really well. And I was "aerodynamic" according to Alicia who kept walking around me and scratching her head, as if to assess how good of a Seeker I was by how I stood. Andrew and Jack took Fred and George's place as Beaters.

Then Harry came back on the team, while Andrew graduated. They were about to break in a new Beater, but I jumped up and down going, "Ple-e-e-ease!" and reminding them of how Fred and George declaratively "passed the torch" to _me_ until they said yes.

In my sixth year, this year, Louis came as an exchange student from Beauxbatons and all our Chasers graduated.

I don't think I quite stressed enough on how good of a Beater Louis is…

Louis had been undergoing a training program with the French team, and was well known as a soon-to-be professional Beater at the age of sixteen. He aspired to be on the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, the national team of France. Apparently, they were already considering him, since one of there Beaters was having a birthday soon, and they make it a goal to keep all their players under 30, a strange tradition.

There hadn't been this much uproar since Victor Krum was spit out of the Goblet of Fire. When he came, Dumbledore opted to give him a private sorting to find his sleeping arrangements. Every Quidditch captain stood outside the room trying to hear what house he would be put in.

When the hat boomed, "Gryffindor!" Harry, the new captain for this year, started hopping up and down while saying, "The Cup is ours! The Cup is ours!" At this, Malfoy, this year's Slytherin captain, said, "One good player doesn't make up for a team of bad ones." I'm sure there was a barrage of insults that followed, but in any sense, Harry jumped Malfoy, and Louis walked out at that very moment and pointed at the two boys rolling on the floor and said, "I'm not in zair house, right?"

Jack changed to the Chaser position and we began to train Dean and Geoffrey, a smaller boy deemed "whiny" by Angelina; Geoffrey was about to get the Keeper position but was held back for that reason.

That's our Quidditch team, confused yet? Yeah.

It was such a thrill to win the first game of the season, what with all the rearranging on our team! But in all honesty, I must admit, it'd be a miracle if we won the Cup this year.

Harry would fly around us, barking instructions as we went. Louis would hit a bludger left, I right. Ron would catch one and throw it back while the Chasers dodged to catch one. Geoff would swoop under and toss it over to Jack, who would swerve under and pass it back to Geoff. They stayed in a V-shape consistently, weaving around the pitch like a braid.

When one of them dropped a ball, Harry would yell, "Do that again and I'll have the twins start pelting you with the Quaffle."

For some reason, the nickname "the twins" was a title that had just stuck for the Beaters. That's what they were always referred to with Fred and George, and Harry couldn't kick the habit.

"Louis, is that game tomorrow?" I asked while throwing up a Quaffle and smashing it at the hoops.

"Yes," he replied, posing to catch the Quaffle flying back from Ron. "I think it's-ugh- Slythering and Hufflepuff."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. I can't imagine why a game would be scheduled the day after Halloween, though," Louis said almost sadly, effortlessly hitting a Quaffle away to continue conversation. "Slythering will win, I saw them practi-sissing. Zey had good form, mais their Beaters are... sloppy."

"I guess they will win," I said, catching a Quaffle from Geoffrey, "Hufflepuff was a bit shoddy when we gave them that what-for." I paused while we had a moment without either Quaffle, "I just hope that we don't have to go against Slytherin for The Cup."

"You're very confident about that Cup."

"I personally think it would take a miracle. _Harry's_ adamant."

"You know, Hermione," Ron said, "I think Crookshanks is beginning to like me!" He smiled and stroked the cat lovingly.

The cat hissed and stroke fiercely at his arm.

"Ah!" Ron yelled.

Hermione laughed.

"Stupid cat!" Ron shouted as he pushed the cat off the arm of the chair. The cat hissed again and Ron ran off as the miniature beast began to pounce at his feet.

"Ron!" Hermione reprimanded.

"Halloween-Halloween-Halloween-Halloweeeen!"

"Would you shut up, Dean?" Ron snapped.

"A festival of mischief and magic!" Dean hollered, leaping on the corner-side street lamp. He tipped the flamboyant velvet top hat he was wearing at a crowd of girls walking by. "A holiday of reeking havoc! Watch me reek! Absolutely reek!"

"I'll reek your face in a second if you don't sod it!" Seamus retorted.

Dean hopped down and dramatically inhaled the crisp air. "Oh, the air smells like sugar," he sighed wistfully. "A beautiful night in Hogsmeade…"

Oh, Halloween. Candy and pumpkin pies, surrounded in a symphony of laughter and screams. Sparks shooting from every which way of a wayward wand or good-hearted trap. Trickery and deceit were not only welcomed with open arms, but welcomed like a big, fat turkey. A big, fat turkey with gravy. Because that's what Halloween is like, a big, fat turkey with gravy: there's yummy goodness on the outside and creepy bits on the in.

I was walking in a group of sixth and seventh year Gryffindors: Dean, Seamus, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Louis, Neville, and now and then Parvati, Padma, and Lavender would bob in and out to flirt with the blokes. The boys were insisting to go to Fred and George's joke shop, where there was going to be a belching contest. Hermione and I shook our head and sighed as we fell in trot after the boys.

Louis and Neville appeared to be fixed in a conversation about Herbology while the rest of the primates sauntered in front of the pack, already practicing their burps.

"Can you believe them? A belching contest, really..." Hermione muttered.

"And they're aloud to use magical aid," I replied, "I forgot my ear plugs. Do you think they'll provide them?"

"Knowing you brothers, they will have earplugs," she said grimly, "They'll just turn into _cockroaches_ or something…"

We walked on behind them, quietly until I inquired, "Well Hermione, have you done anything mischievous tonight?"

"Yes, I put itching powder in the uniforms of the entire Slytherin Quidditch team," she whispered.

"Ha! That'll be the day!" I laughed.

"No, I really did..." she said in a shaky undertone.

I stopped in my tracks and studied her. She turned and grabbed my arm and made me keep moving. I laughed in disbelief mouth agape. "Really?"

"Well it was Lavender's idea, she convinced us all to do it. The girls and I did it on All-Hollow's Eve." She glanced at me. "Please, don't tell anyone."

"Hermione?" I hissed, "You're not Hermione!"

"I am, and I… was inspired," she said wistfully.

"By what? My brothers?"

"By a book I read called, "'Archibald Reginald,' it's quite excellent; about a young man who falls in love with a girl and begins to do crazy things. The ending's very morbid though, he kills himself."

"There are so many things wrong with that…"

"Oh, really?" She laughed brazenly. I smiled at her. "Well I suppose Archibald seems a lot more justified when you're reading the book."

"What's _your_ justification? Is it love too?" I said sarcastically.

"No, not really..."

I almost paused in my tracks again, surprised to hear this response when I was being sarcastic in the first place. "As if it's not enough to get one shock in a night…" I said in a low voice. "You have a crush, don't you?"

She shook her head and rolled her shoulders back, trying to cover up the blush on her cheeks with an noble posture.

We were coming up near Wheezes and I could tell Hermione was attempting to evade something as she shouldered her cloak over herself. "What are you not telling me, Hermione?"

She whined and nearly frowned. We were well behind the boys and she leaned over to me. "I trust you won't say anything, I know you're like that. But first I would like to say we did that itching powder trick for our own bit o' thrill."

I chuckled, "Yes, yes, Hermione, cut to the chase."

"Okay," she laughed nervously, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe she was getting this off her shoulders. "There's this guy in Ravenclaw..."

"Anthony Goldstein?"

"How did you know?

"He was in the DA and he's a prefect, a Ravenclaw, there's must have been something there."

She let out a whine that begged for pity. "You won't tell, will you?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "I said I wouldn't and I won't," I replied, mentally noting how we sounded like thirteen-year-olds. "I know exactly how you feel. Remember when I told you about Michael?"

"Yes, you were a wreck. Oh my gosh! I don't _look_ like a wreck, do I?" She turned to me, grinning nervously. "Oh, it's just, you know me. I never talk too much about this... stuff, and I just break down whenever I do, but, I don't know, it's nice to kind of… get it out there."

"It's just a crush," I said soothingly. "You can talk about it; and you don't look like a wreck." I looked ahead as the guys just got to the door. There was a loud belching noise coming from it. "Ugh, can you believe we get so worked up over those _things_," I sighed, pointing at the boys.

Hermione and I were just walking into Gryffindor Tower, we were still covered in confetti and bogged down with bags of sweets. She had completely forgotten about our conversation earlier and was back to her composed self with a lolly between her lips. We were just chatting about my mother's knitting when there was a loud scream emitted from the Girls' Dormitory.

Hermione turned to me quickly, eyes wide, and instantly we began to sprint up the stairs, bags in hand. There was another scream and we halted quickly in front of my dorm, bunching up the carpet in our stop. Joan was standing on top of a bed, clutching the bed post, absolutely bawling. She wailed again and pointed at a giant magenta turkey on the carpet that was running about in a tizzy.

"What is going on?" Hermione hollered above the chaos. "Do you know how _that_ got here?" she said to me.

I looked on apathetically to the situation. "I have NO idea what you're talking about."

"What do I _do?_" Joan shrieked.

Hermione sighed, "It's a sodding turkey. It's not going to hurt you…" She took out her wand and pointed it at the turkey. "Stupefy."

The magenta turkey instantly fell over and Hermione went over to the giant thing and began to haul it towards the window, squealing slightly when in twitched in her grasp. "We're not too high up," she stated, "And even if this thing dies on the way down, I don't think anyone would be too sad."

"Hermione!" Joan and I yelled.

"What happened to the girl that was all pro-elf?" I inquired in a loud, hoarse voice.

"_It's a sodding turkey_!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, "It's _head_ is thirty time smaller than it's body!--How can it have a useful brain in there?" She hoisted the heavy, pink poultry onto the windowsill and nudged it out the window.

Suddenly there was a gigantic squawking as it dropped and we all rushed to the window.

"It's awake already?" Hermione said astonished.

"I didn't know turkeys could fly!" I said in the same tone.

The turkey awkwardly "flew" seven stories or more to the ground, where it ran around even more wildly and made even more noise.

"I can't believe you threw that thing out of the window!" Joan exclaimed.

"I had a bad experience with a turkey; I don't care for them much..." Hermione muttered with nonchalance in spite of the situation.

"Well _I_ had a bad experience with poultry after a certain little "reign of terror" in my first year, but you don't see me throwing them at will out of the _seventh story window!_"

"IT'S A SODDING TURKEY!" Hermione repeated loudly and stormed out of the room.

Joan ran to her trunk and tugged out her blue diary. "I _have_ to write this down..." she muttered. She rummaged through her junk some more and then paused. "Where's my pen?"

I stood for a minute to watch her search for the pen, which ne'er shall exist in it's previous form again. Hermione was not the only lass doing tricky deeds lately.

After I basked in Joan's frantic confusion and frizzled conduct, I decided to chase after Hermione. Although the turkey occurrence was quite hilarious, there seemed to be a need for an apology. I was at the foot of the stairs when the portrait hole swung open and our blokes came pouring in.

"Man, the weirdest thing just happened, Hermione!" Ron blurted upon seeing her. Seamus was proudly brandishing a black ribbon that said "Most Creative Belcher." I winced. "We were coming back from Hogsmeade, and all of a sudden a giant pink turkey came flying out of the air!" he cried, holding out his arms for effect.

In a loud and edgy voice that was bordering hysteria, Hermione exclaimed, "You don't say!" She put her nose behind of her book in avoidance.

"What's wrong now?" Ron asked, parting himself from the guys and making his way over to Hermione.

"Nothing," she huffed.

"See, when you say it like that I just know you're trying to hide something."

"It's stupid, Ron, let it die!" She lifted up her book again and her eyes wandered across the words without retaining anything. "Why can't you let it die?"

"Uh…"

"LET IT DIE!"

"Is that that Reginald-book you've been reading since forever, I thought you finished it."

"I did finish it."

"Then why bother reading it again?"

"Why bother watching a movie or a television show again after you already seen it?"

"What?"

"Nevermind…" she sighed.

"Aha..." Ron sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm across the top of it. "I see you're having a bad moment, let me give you a bit of advice that me father gave me that's always helped me through the years; it's a little bit of genius that will always help you, no matter what, no matter how bad you feel."

Hermione looked up at Ron with a placid, expecting face. "What?"

"When you put the bread in the basket there's always an ant to ruin the picnic."

There was a short pause.

"What?" she asked in a matter-of-factly. "That doesn't make the least bit of sense."

"Neither do women or life," Ron quoted, hopping of the chair, "That's the last part of what he said." Hermione hit him with her book and brought it back to her nose, smiling now. Ron took her hint and bid goodbye and left towards his friends. My brother, the peacemaker.

* * *

A/N: Uh oh, I'm going to get flamed for a short chapter with no Draco, aren't I? Well no matter, all flames will be used to Dobby at the steak

Next Chapter:

- Hermione exposes her turkey-haunted past.

- Another lesson in "How-not-to-get-your-tongue-torn-out"

- Ravenclaw vs. Slythering-g-g

Many thanks to: **BlackMystick, SiLvA-423, Violet Spark **(you're reviews were so encouraging to read! I'm so used to one line snippets and it was so exciting to read this, it made my day. .)**, Funnykido, and Mishavay. **

Thanks so much, guys, the reviews have totally been helping me. I've notice a general approval of Malfoy's little "I'm not gay!" outburst. I'm thinking of maybe having a little thread of that again in a future chapter. I basically have the whole story line set in stone now, but I'd like to ask: **If there are any outlandish Draco/Ginny cliches you would like to see in a future chapter, describe it in a review and I'll try and write it in. **We've got a lot of cliches to cover and we's a-movin' fast!


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